Black, Green, and Gold or The Persistent Bunny
by MorningPerson
Summary: Voldemort, imprudent on his best day, decides to summon forces of pure Darkness to aid him. Sadly, they aren't the kind of Darkness he imagined! Introduction; more if people want it.
1. Chapter 1

Lord Voldemort was a man of many qualities, some good, some not. He was patient, in the way of a spider secure in the knowledge that in time, it will feed on the flesh of its foe. Thorough, in the way of a poisoner preparing his personal antidote, knowing that the sloghtest misstep could spell doom. Inventive, in the way of a theif forever planning the perfect con. Brutal, certainly – it was a requirement for any aspiring Dark Lord. Cunning, without doubt – No individual who so favored his ancestor Salazar Slytherin could hope to avoid being so. What he was not was cautious, nor prone to reflection once a course of action was decided. This is where the trouble started, though most assuredly not where it ended.

It had taken the better part of a decade, much longer than it should have. Rituals of the scale needed to prepare for the chosen course of action were by their very nature a trial for even the greatest wizard – indeed, many had been designed specifically to be so, in order to prevent their becoming commonplace. However, it ought not to have consumed more than five years at the very most to gather the components, forge the artifacts, and secure the sites needed to perform the trio of magical rites needed to allow Lord Voldemort to accomplish what he planned to tonight. Damn Potter and his accursed followers. They'd grown entirely too adept at ruining carefully-planned Death Eater operations. Still, all was in readiness, and the wizarding world's self-appointed master was not about to quibble tonight of all nights.

The very distance to the ritual site was daunting, or would be without Apparition. Nearly seventeen miles of twisting, rocky trails separated the tower he'd raised atop the tallest mountain in the world, Everest itself, from the nearest magical settlement, but that was entirely a moot point. Tonight, events would be set in motion, and the world shattered and reforged in Voldemort's image.

* * *

_"I call upon you, warrior without peer, and you the lovely poisoner. You of the sharpened sword and you of the shadowed hand, I command your obedience._

Black stormclouds filled the sky above the isolated tower perched precariously on the mountaintop. Lightning came flashing down every few seconds, accompanied by a tremendous crash that shook the very roots of the titanic peak, while rain and sleet and snow lashed the figure standing atop the tower. Despite the elements' fury, his head remained unbowed, his face set against the biting wind. He was chanting, softly but insistently, each word marked with another flash of lightning and roar of thunder.

_"_ _I call upon you, demon made flesh, and you his father. You of the gilded death and you of the honeyed knives, I command your obedience."_

The words grew louder, the pauses between them shorter, the lightning almost a steady stream of energy as it blazed down onto the topmost pinnacle of the tower, a black-veined marble edifice that would have reminded an onlooker of a spearpoint, had anone ever been foolish enough to brave the mountain trails to see it.

_"_ _I call upon you, darkest of ladies. You of the unknowable power and of the midnight soul, I command your obedience."_

_"In the name of Light and Darkness and Blood and Power, I call and command you. So mote it be."_

And, with a final crescendo of blinding light and deafening noise, it was done.

Blinking confusion from their eyes, five figures arose from the snow-covered ground. Two women, one golden-haired with eyes the color of sapphire and one with locks as dark as a raven's wing covering delicately pointed ears, two men, as near identical as made no difference in black formal clothing, and a tall, heavily muscled man with wings and a strange weapon appearing to be a cross between a sword and a staff, all unsmiling and all radiating a degree of power that made Voldemort want to laugh out loud. Success, after all this time! Soon, he alone would rule.

Breathing deeply, the blonde took in her surroundings. Slowly, but with all the terrible beauty of a building tempest, her sapphire eyes subtly shifted to a midnight blue closer to black than anything else. There was something in those eyes that promised pain on a level that would make the Cruciatus appear a mere pinpribk by comparison, once she decided on a target.

Voldemort suddenly felt very insecure. Doing as any proper Dark Lord would, he Disapparated.

"Prince Saetan, attend." One of the suited men bowed, golden eyes flashing ominously.

"My Lady." His voice was honey, but with an unexpected bite – as though he fully expected someone to die before the day was out.

"That man who just disappeared. He is tainted. Clearly, this place needs our help just as much as Terreille."

"Indeed, Lady." That was the second suited man. A more polished version of the other, while the first was stunningly handsome, this one was almost too beautiful to be real, with a restrained sensuality that pulled at the senses of those around him.

"Prepare yourselves. We're going hunting."

AN: Just a short introduction for something that bit my muse and refused to let go. What does everyone think of the Black Jewels characters in the HP-verse? More specifically, any bets on how long Voldemort and company will survive against someone much more dangerous than they could ever hope to be?


	2. Chapter 2

AN: This story is going to be very catch-as-catch-can; It's essentially a plot wererabbit that got out of hand. As such, chapter length, composition, and quality are going to be largely unpredictable, but they will keep coming.

Two Black-Jeweled Warlord Princes and an assassin wearing a Grey Jewel circled a large island in a Realm neone of them had heard of. The males were Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, Prince of the Darkness and High Lord of Hell, and his arguably more deadly son, Daemon Sadi. Unusually for both, their handsome features were creased in consternation and bafflement. The assassin, a lovely half-Dea al Mon woman called Surreal, eyed the landmass with the institutional paranoia of her profession.

*Nothing, nothing, and nothing… Why aren't there any Blood? I'm catching traces of Craft, but no Jewels.*

*Why indeed… Hang on, there's something there.*

*Where? I don't - Never mind. There in the center of the island?*

*Yes, Daemon. You get Lucivar and Jaenelle; Surreal and I will investigate.*

*As you wish. Be careful, Father.* Cutting the psychic threads that allowed silent communication, Daemon jumped to the Black Wind and headed back to the mountain they'd arrived on, where his Queen and his brother were waiting.

Saetan and Surreal spiraled carefully down to earth, raising protective and sight shields the moment their feet touched ground. The area appeared to be some sort of aristo housing district, but all the houses and all the gardens were as near identical as made no difference. For a pair that had spent nearly sixty thousand years between them in a Realm of unique, varied dwellings, it was a bizarre and rather unsettling sight.

Surreal called in a dagger, holding it at her side but keeping the razor-edged weapon poised for a swift stab to the throat. Chuckling slightly at the lady's discomfort, Saetan gathered his cloak around him and and strode up the road to the source of the psychic signature he'd found: A house with a large, silver number four on it.

Harry Potter, unusually for a twelve-year-old just back from school, was not enjoying himself. This was largely to do with the bars on his window and the locks on his door, specifically with the facts that he did not have the keys to them and that they were designed to keep him inside. He hadn't seen the sun, except through his barred window, in a week, and all his meals had been delivered through a cat flap. Not being entirely unused to such treatment, he had settled in for a very long and very boring summer.

And so, as he lay on his bed thumbing through one of Dudley's unread novels and contemplating the merits of turning Dark, it was with extreme surprise that he heard his Uncle Vernon's voice rising angrily downstairs, accompanied by an hysterical shriek from his Aunt Petunia. The two competing sounds build higher and higher, both drying to drown the other out, before falling abruptly silent. They were replaced by possible the most chilling voice he had ever heard, a voice that made Voldemort's at the end of the school year sound entirely tame in comparison. A soft, malevolent whisper that nonetheless carried far and wide, as if the speaker were standing right behind you.

"Lady, perhaps you misunderstand me. I did not offer you a choice in the matter; we need to speak with your nephew. It will not take long, and I would appreciate it if I did not have to complicate matters by dealing with you and your husband." Those words… a honey-coated monologue, pleasant to hear but unsettling in the extreme when their implications sunk in.

"Now see here, you! We'll have none of your kind in this house! Normal, decent people, that's what we are, and if the boy had stayed with us we'd have beaten the magic out of him!" And there was his uncle's voice, just as crude and offensive to the ears as always. Did that mean a wizard had come to get him? And was a wizard with that kind of voice someone he really wanted to be with?

"I beg your pardon?" Where the voice had been a promise of eventual retribution before, it was now as icy as an Arctic night, full of barely suppressed rage. Had it been anyone other than his Aunt and Uncle on the receiving end of that voice, Harry would have felt sorry for them.

"Don't try and be smart with me! You're a freak, just like him, and if it wasn't for that damned Dumble-door fellow we'd have beaten the freakiness out of him and you wouldn't be here!"

"Oh, I assure you - While I might not have come here so soon, I would have eventually. Your actions demand retribution. Hasn't anyone ever told you that everything has a price? Now, you and your Lady will remain here. Lady Surreal, see that they do."

"High Lord."

The sounds of footsteps, an icy-sounding "I see." at the point when someone climbing the stairs could see Harry's door, and an indescribable feeling of power filled the room. Just as Harry cocked his head, unsure of what was happening, his door exploded. He dove to the floor, curling into a ball to protect his head - but the splinters never hit. Looking up, he saw them suspended in mid air, the air surrounding them tinged with black. They dropped to the floor just as a man in a white shirt, black suit, and long black cape stepped through the ruined doorway. He stood there, frowning slightly, apparently waiting for Harry to say something. Harry stared back, entirely unprepared for recent events. The man sighed, muttering darkly to himself. "No Protocol at all, what's the Realm coming to? Ah, well. Come along, young Warlord. There's places to go and things to do." With that, he crossed the room and helped Harry up. With Harry in his wake, the man strode back downstairs and gazed at the Dursleys with an almost bored-looking expression.

"Remember: Everything has a price, and you will pay yours eventually."

A woman with long black hair and startling green-flecked golden eyes smiled thinly, and cocked her head towards Vernon. "Sugar, you want to listen up. He's the High Lord of Hell; even being dead won't stop him from hurting you." Eyes wide, Harry tuned to stare at the man. So baffled was he by the events unfolding around him that he didn't notice as the lady gestured towards him and a bolt of power sent him into a deep, deep sleep.


End file.
